Loving Eleanor

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  “Let me know what you decide,” I replied. “Oh, and I haven’t said anything to Mrs. R about my idea. Thought I’d check it out with you first.”

  Louis sucked on his cigarette, then paused to cough, flicking ashes onto the papers strewn across his desk. He gave me a penetrating look and I squirmed, wondering just how deeply he could see into me.

  “These women-only press conferences,” he said. “Is this something the Washington AP is pushing?”

  “Nope.” I shook my head emphatically. “I haven’t mentioned it in the bureau. I’m not going to Washington,” I added, in case he was wondering if I was feathering my own nest. “Byron Price—the Washington bureau chief—has already assigned Bess Furman to the First Lady, effective on Inauguration Day.” It hurt to say that.

  He was silent for a moment, his large, dark eyes fixed shrewdly on my face. “You are remembering the cardinal rule of the newspaper game, aren’t you, Hick?”

  “Which one is that?” I managed a chuckle. “There are so many.”

  He sat forward, waving the smoke away with one hand, scattering ashes with the other. “A reporter shouldn’t get too close to a source.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” I said cheerfully.

  But I had heard the warning, another variant on the AP’s stay out of the story. As a political strategist, Louis had perfected the knack of reading people—understanding what they wanted, anticipating how much they would give to get it. I reminded myself that if I wasn’t careful, he might guess how I felt about Madam.

  Now, reflecting on that conversation across the years, I realize that he knew, even then, and knew what he might have to do.

  But that came later. He didn’t have to do it yet.

  A few mornings later, I got the call. Louis was briskly cordial. “FDR says to tell you that the press conference idea is, and I quote, ‘grand.’ Early’s a little doubtful—wonders whether Mrs. R can handle a mob of girl reporters without getting herself or the president into trouble. But he says for you to get him a list of correspondents and he’ll certify them. You can tell Mrs. Roosevelt that she has the go-ahead from this end.” He chuckled. “Too bad First Ladies don’t hire press secretaries, Hick. If they did, you’d be my choice for Mrs. R’s, hands down.”

  At lunchtime, I met Mrs. R and Tommy over a small table at the crowded Horn & Hardart Automat on Fifty-Seventh off Broadway. Mrs. R, who would be speaking at a meeting of the Women’s Trade Union League, was wearing a nicely tailored gray gabardine jacket and skirt with a ruffled white blouse—one of the new “First Lady” outfits her daughter Anna had helped her pick out. But the suit was uneasily topped by an old dollar-sale hat, a maroon felt pancake with a large pink rose tipped over one eye. I had to smile. A little of the old mixed in with the new.

  When Tommy went to get coffee for us, I shared the idea I had pitched to Louis.

  “Press conferences?” She wrinkled her forehead doubtfully. “But I’ve been told to stay out of politics, Hick. There’ll be nothing newsworthy about me.” She raised her voice a little above the tinny rattle of coins and the clatter of the glass doors of the dispensing machines. “I’ve lived in Washington before. I know what the First Lady does. I’ll be nothing but a hostess for social functions.”

  She wasn’t being modest. She was genuinely unaware, I thought, of the potential of her office—which was understandable, given the limitations imposed on most previous First Ladies. But I could see it, and I knew she could, too, once she got into the habit of looking for it.

  But I didn’t want to overwhelm her. I shook my head firmly. “You don’t have to get involved in politics.” I leaned forward and punctuated my words with my fork. “You are the news. A weekly press conference will give you a chance to let women across the country know what you think is important. In case you’re worrying that it’ll put you in the fishbowl,” I added, “remember that these press conferences will be your fishbowl. You’ll be in charge.” I had an idea for a newspaper column, too, but that could wait.

  Tommy had come back to the table with three green-and-white H&H mugs filled with the Automat’s legendary chicory coffee. “Whose fishbowl?” she asked.

  “Hick thinks I should hold weekly press conferences at the White House,” Mrs. R replied. “For women only.” She pulled down her mouth. “But what would I say? And what if I say the wrong thing?”

  “If you say something you didn’t mean to say, just tell them it’s off the record,” I said. “If they don’t abide by that, Early will revoke their credentials. Simple as that.”

  “It’s a swell idea, Boss,” Tommy said with a little grin. “And you’ll have plenty to say. Why, if nothing else, you can hand out seating arrangements and dinner menus. It might keep them from snooping.”

  “Snooping?” I rolled my eyes. “Come on, now, Tommy. No reporter worth her salt would ever consider doing a thing like that.”

  We laughed. The recent administrations had been close-mouthed about everything that went on inside the White house, even social events. Reporters had been driven to bribing the servants to get the inside dope, and some of them were even rumored to keep a few servants on retainer.

  “Speaking of reporters,” I said, “here’s something else to consider.” I put down a card I hadn’t played for Howe. “Newspapers are in serious trouble. Advertising revenue is dropping through the floor. Managing editors are cutting staff, and women reporters are always the first to be fired. But if the First Lady holds regular press conferences, those editors won’t dare cut the women.” I pointed my finger at her. “Without them, there won’t be any access to you.”

  “That’s something I hadn’t thought about.” Still frowning and uncertain, Mrs. R put her hand over mine. “My very dear one, thank you for the vote of confidence, and for thinking of the newspaper women. But I’m sure that Louis Howe and Steve Early will think it’s a terrible idea.”

  My very dear one. My heart jumped at the words and I lifted my eyes to hers, glimpsing an open, unguarded depth that startled me, and a softness around her mouth that was trembling into a smile. She had used endearments before, but not in the presence of others.

  But then the look in her eyes was gone, so quickly that I wasn’t sure of what I had seen, and her mouth was firm. She removed her hand. I had the feeling that we had been standing together at the edge of a very steep cliff, she and I, and that we had both stepped back at the same time. I felt Tommy’s curious glance on us and heard my voice as if it were coming from a great distance.

  “I took the liberty of mentioning the idea to Louis,” I said. “He spoke to FDR and Steve Early, and they understand the advantages. If you decide to do it, it’s okay with them.”

  “I see,” Mrs. Roosevelt said. “Well, then, I suppose I’ll have to consider it.” She pushed back her chair, all business now. “I need to go to the bookshop and pick up a book I promised for Anna. Take your time, Tommy, dear. Hick, I’ll see you at four, at the WTUL meeting. I’ll give you a copy of my talk then. I want to mark the quotes for you.” She sighed. “It’s my last talk there, I’m afraid. Franklin has asked me to give it up, along with the Democratic National Committee and the League of Women Voters.” She frowned at me. “You see, Hick? They really intend to keep me out of politics.”

  Tommy and I lingered over coffee and cigarettes, saying very little. A noisy trio took a table near us. Under their voices and the rattle of their dishes, Tommy said, “There’s something I need to say to you, Hick. But it’s off the record and very confidential.” Her eyes were intent on my face. “Do I have your word?”

  “Of course.” I didn’t stop to calculate how much I was leaving off the record these days, and what that said about my commitment to my job as a reporter.

  “I’ve seen how much time you’re spending with the Boss, and I’ve been glad of it. She needs a friend—someone who is more to her than a secretary. I can do a lot for her, but I can’t do what you do—take her out of herself, show her that she’s deeply admired, push her to d
o things she wouldn’t undertake on her own. Earl used to do that, you know. He gave her confidence. Gave her love. You’re filling his place, and that’s good.” She stirred her coffee, not looking at me. “Even better, you’re not a man. When she was with Earl, tongues wagged.” Now she glanced up. “Two women together call less attention to themselves than a woman and a man.”

  One of the trio at the other table dropped a fork and scraped his chair as he retrieved it. The murmur of voices around us rose like a cloud to the ceiling. I cleared my throat, not wanting to say the words but wanting to know the answer. “Do you think she’s in love with Earl?”

  “No,” she says slowly. “Perhaps at one time, but not now. She was enormously grateful for what he offered her. He was on her side, totally. He gave her what her husband doesn’t, the sense that she’s a woman, a desirable woman, physically desirable, I mean.” She picked up her cup, sipped, put it down again. “When the two of them were with Nancy and Marion, she liked to pretend that Earl was her lover. I’m not even sure she understood what she was doing—not fully, I mean. But he understood. It was a flirtatious playacting, and he played along. That’s why he was so good for her.” Her eyes questioned me, asking if I understand.

  I nodded. Yes, I understood. Playacting. That’s what I had seen that afternoon at Val-Kill. And then I wondered. I wondered about us, about her. About playacting.

  She slid me another long look, then: “I’m telling you this, Hick, because much as I love and admire the woman, she does require a very great deal of the people who care for her. Not that she means to use anybody, not really. But she’s a… a whirlwind. You and I and Earl, and even Nan and Marion—we’re like scraps of paper. We get swept up into her enthusiasms and whirled along. She inspires us, and we want to do whatever we can to help her. But it’s easy to get sucked in, to lose ourselves. I love my husband, but my commitment to the Boss has already caused problems. If I go to Washington with her, I might as well say goodbye to my marriage. I have to choose between Frank and—”

  She was interrupted by a loud crash of china and cutlery, as a stand loaded with dirty dishes teetered and fell. She stopped, blinked, and took a deep breath. “There are demons in her, Hick, from her childhood, from her early years with FDR and his mother. Her constant busyness—it’s her way of outrunning them. But if you let yourself get in too deep, they may become your demons, too.” She glanced down at her watch and pushed her chair back with the air of a woman who has just said far more than she intended. “Goodness, just look at the time. There’s a stack of letters waiting on my desk. Gotta dash.”

  I watched Tommy as she dodged through the tables with her characteristic I-know-where-I’m-going walk and disappeared. Later, I would think again of what she had said and know that she was warning me, in the same way Louis Howe had warned me, not to get too close. Not to let myself get pulled into the whirlwind.

  Stay out of the story. But it was already too late. Much too late.

  As the days passed, Mrs. R’s apprehension about going to Washington seemed to heighten, her moodiness to deepen. A reporter would ask a question, and she would harden her mouth and refuse to answer. At dinner, a friend would bring up the subject and she would turn away. I could understand that she dreaded the empty duties of the White House hostess, but it seemed to me that there was more to it than that, a dark, dangerous shadow looming just over her shoulder.

  It was Bess Furman who told me. She had come up from Washington to meet Mrs. Roosevelt and Mrs. R invited both of us to lunch. I asked Bess to meet me at my office that morning so I could share background material from the AP files. The office was a hive of reporters coming and going, typewriters and teletypes clattering, telephones ringing. We found a quiet corner away from the hubbub and settled down for a working session with coffee, donuts, cigarettes, and our notebooks.

  I liked Bess, I discovered. Plump and round-faced, with a frank, easy openness, she had grown up in a small town in Nebraska. Now she was a savvy, hard-working newswoman with a Midwesterner’s blunt, straight-to-the point style. I had a lot of material to cover, and Bess knew what questions to ask. By the time we were finished going through clippings and photos, I had decided I could trust her with my concern.

  “May I ask you a favor, Bess?”

  She closed her notebook. “Sure. I’ll do what I can.”

  “Mrs. Roosevelt is… well, nervous about moving back to Washington. Part of it is the fishbowl life of the White House, I’m sure, and she’s unhappy about giving up her personal projects. But there’s something else bothering her, something deeper than that, and I don’t know what it is. You might keep your eyes open. Maybe you could… well, give her a hand. If she gets into trouble, I mean.”

  Bess leaned back in her chair, eyeing me, half amused. “You don’t know, then.”

  “Know what?” I lit another cigarette.

  “About Franklin. And Lucy Mercer. Mrs. Winthrop Rutherfurd, she is now.” She studied my expression. “Ah. I see that you don’t. Well, I understand. It’s never been in the newspapers, of course. And it’s a Washington story. You’re based in New York.”

  It was true. I’d been in New York for going on six years. Washington was like a foreign country. “What’s there to know?” But from the tone of her voice, I could make a calculated guess. I was right.

  “An affair, back in 1916, 1917. Lucy Mercer was Eleanor’s social secretary. I don’t know when it began, but I understand that it ended in 1918, when Eleanor found some of Lucy’s letters. Love letters.” Bess chuckled and the freckles danced across her nose. “Letters can certainly cause a lot of trouble, in the wrong hands. Better burn them before anybody gets a look, I’d say.”

  In later years, with several thousand of Madam’s letters in my possession, I might have agreed. But at the time, I was startled, not so much by the fact of an affair, but by the awareness that it might be enough of an issue to cause trouble for Mrs. Roosevelt. Unless—

  “You’re not… you’re not saying that the affair was public knowledge, are you?” I asked slowly. “Or that Mrs. R is concerned about people remembering that far back?”

  Bess gave me a lopsided grin. “That’s how much you know about Washington, Hick. It’s nothing like New York. It’s a tight-knit little town, very parochial. The people in Washington society—especially the women—know every damn thing that goes on, and they never forget. Once a story gets started, it lives eternally. This one not only lives but thrives, mostly because of Alice.”

  “Alice?”

  “I’d better start at the beginning.” Bess took a cigarette out of a monogrammed case. “Eleanor and Franklin moved to town early in the Wilson administration. They had an elegant house on R Street. Franklin was an assistant bigwig in the Navy Department, and Eleanor, as the ambitious bigwig’s dutiful wife, trotted around making her duty calls, hundreds of them. She needed somebody to keep her social calendar straight, so she hired Lucy Mercer.” She flicked her lighter to her cigarette. “Lucy was—and still is—an exceptionally lovely woman, graceful, elegant, light-hearted and gay.” She paused, blowing out a stream of smoke. “Eleanor isn’t the prettiest belle at the ball, of course. And nobody ever called her light-hearted.”

  “I suppose so,” I said slowly, already feeling the hurt. “But she—” I caught her quizzical look and stopped. “Sorry. Go on.”

  “Lucy and Franklin fell in love. Franklin went to Europe—this was during the war—and there were letters. Eleanor found them when she unpacked his suitcase and the whole story came out. She was quite civilized about it. She offered Franklin his freedom, but he refused and promised never to see Lucy again.” Bess pulled on her cigarette. “Or he asked for his freedom and Eleanor said yes, but Lucy said no because she was Catholic. Everybody’s got a favorite explanation for what happened. Or what didn’t happen. Take your pick.”

  “My god,” I muttered, shaking my head.

  “Oh, there’s more. His mother is supposed to have said that she’d cut him off
without a penny if he abandoned his family. And Louis Howe warned him that a divorce would make him a dead duck forever, politically speaking. Between the family money and his political ambitions, he saw his duty. He’d stick it out with his wife. In the end, Eleanor forgave him, although she never quite took him back.”

  Poor, poor Madam, I thought, heart-stricken. How deeply hurt and humiliated she must have been. It must have felt as if all her clothes were stripped off and she was forced to go naked in public.

  “And then there was Alice,” Bess said, dropping her lighter into her purse.

  “Alice?” I asked again, and then understood. “Oh, yes. Mrs. Longworth.”

  “Yes. Alice Roosevelt Longworth. Teddy’s daughter, Eleanor’s first cousin, and an Oyster Bay Roosevelt.”

  Of course, I thought. Teddy Roosevelt, TR’s eldest son, had been competing politically with FDR for decades. The Oyster Bay Roosevelts blamed both Franklin and Eleanor for the drubbing Teddy Junior took in the 1924 New York gubernatorial race, where Eleanor had campaigned for Al Smith and against her cousin.

  “Alice is sharp-tongued and enjoys her bit of tittle-tattle,” Bess went on, “and she is not a fan of Eleanor’s. I was told that during the war, when Eleanor and the children were on holiday at Campobello, Alice invited Franklin and Lucy to dinner and seated them together. She told friends that he deserved to have a little fun, since he was married to Eleanor. Franklin was there and heard it.” Bess made a little face. “He laughed.”

  I felt a hot, unreasoning anger boil up inside me, and in that moment, I hated him. How could Franklin Roosevelt betray his wife, and in such a careless, brutal, public way? I took a deep breath and steadied my voice.

  “So you’re telling me that Mrs. Roosevelt is going back to a place where people have nothing more important to talk about than a fifteen-year-old love affair?”